Greenish light,
chains rattling,
twinging with a metallic whir.
Hooks stabbing at his
shoulder,
leg and
side.
Jarring and
resonating in his head.
Sweat beading his whole body,
mixing with blood,
diluting it,
turning it even saltier,
like the Dead Sea.
Stinging painfully in
the multiple scratches,
scars and
gashes torn by
the hellhound's claws and teeth.
Curled long lashes
soaked by more salty liquid.
Unknowing,
uncaring
whether it was tears,
blood
or sweat,
clogging them.
Flashes running
through him,
around him,
lightning strikes constantly
coursing through every
muscle,
sinew,
bone and
nerve,
making them twitch,
overexpanding his already
agonisingly stretched form.
Like a fly in a spider's web.
Suspended in space,
no point of orientation:
no up,
no down,
no left,
no right,
no sun,
no moon.
No Sam.
Alone.
Devoid of presence.
Emptiness filled up by pain,
cruelty and tears only to feel
even more vacant.
Lashing out at his heart.
Tearing his soul in two.
Soulless thunder rumbling
around him,
above him,
in him,
heart bursting in panic,
he screams.
For the first time in his existence,
he fears,
unable to turn away,
push away.
Unable to free himself,
to fight.
When there is no orientation,
there is no running away
or from
or to.
To Sam.
"Somebody help me!"
Forcing himself to fight,
to be liberated,
to accept help at last,
he wriggles.
Renewing the unbearable torment in
his still all too tangible body.
Hissing air into his lungs;
foul,
fetid,
sulfurous air;
he casts his eyes around wildly.
Praying for a glimpse of hope,
a twinkle of good,
a hint of salvation
but his eyes and his soul are met with
a void,
of pain and
despair.
No Sam.
No orientation.
No purpose.
No hope.
No... love.
Nothing.
Hell.
His ears pick up a low hum,
nerve wracking,
reverberating in his
skull and
collarbones.
He turns his head to find the source
but endless,
eternal nothingness
answers his plea for reason.
Only chains,
lightning,
torture,
green phosphorescence,
blood,
exhaustion,
solitude and
irredeemability
share and define his existence.
Companions in his torment.
His demons.
Welcoming them is like welcoming defeat.
And he struggles against their crooning,
their offer to yield and be saved.
False promises.
They are his companions, too.
He had made them.
Been subjected to them.
Detested them.
Denied them.
Only one way to hell and it is plastered
with good intentions, with promises not kept.
Leaving behind a stale after-taste of
final ineptitude,
discomfiture.
Anger rises like bile.
Rage at himself.
Consuming wrath at his choices in life
finally bringing him here.
What was he supposed to have done differently?
No alternatives,
never an easy way,
always the hard and stony road
leading to hell.
The companions sniggering and mocking him.
Always a choice, buddy.
Their laughter eats at his heart and soul,
gnawing away his reasons and intentions,
leaving behind raw and bloody
despair and uncertainty.
Had he done wrong?
NO!
NO?
Where was the gain in all this?
People had been saved.
Sam had been saved.
"SAM!"
He yells using up his diminishing supply of
air in his lungs, leaving them burning for oxygen.
Fights against nausea as he inhales
the putrid excuse for fresh air
flooding his bronchia.
Sweat streams down
his tensed muscles in torrents,
washing away dried blood.
He welcomes the cleansing effect.
Cringing at the stinging sensation
it sends through his body,
when sweat surges against wounds;
like a huge tidal wave against crumbling cliffs.
Feeding off the anger he raises his head.
The hook in his shoulder
contributing to a near deafening cry of agony.
It had to be done this way.
Had to be!
Had to be?
His demons roaring with laughter.
Says who?
Dad?
Sam?
You?
Why?
Why do you have to suffer for them?
Where is the purpose in that?
Shut up you filthy, foul, fucking bitches!
Mustering all his power he sneers at them.
His mind races, taking in his own predicament
but turning it, molding it into a weapon.
Determination.
Will.
Purpose.
There is a way out!
There always is!
Yeah?
You been to hell before, Dean?
Mocking him, the voices echo around him,
converging with the frequent pulse of lightning and
resonating excruciatingly inside his head.
My whole life has been hell, you freakin ass holes!
I excel at living in hell.
Have enough experience to get myself out
of this stinking pot hole and take others with me!
Defiance flares up inside him
but it is a flash in the pan
as memories reel behind his
pale, weary eyes.
His mother dying in flames.
Sam's lifeless body in his arms,
his father's body nourishing
the flames on the pyre.
Waves of loss and grief encompass him,
tear at him threatening
to wash him away with them;
to carry him to the open sea
and drown him in the deep,
dark ocean of despair.
His walls finally crumbling down,
he gasps;
terrified at the impact and
tries to resist
its tempting offer of oblivion,
soothing his wounded soul.
He swims against the current,
stiffens physically and
is rewarded with a
jarring surge of agony
clawing at his flesh and bones.
Despair overwhelms him,
tears him away.
There is no way out of here.
Never was.
I am so sorry Sam.
I can't do this.
Sorry that I left you.
Alone.
Unprotected.
In danger.
Working slowly,
like climbing up a steep,
stone stairwell;
exhausted and panting heavily,
he fights against imminent defeat.
Each word one step
closer to a chance
to win the battle.
To get back to Sam.
Slowly upwards.
Sam being the
spark to his will's inferno.
Has. To. Be. Protected.
Can't. Leave. Him.
My. Job.
Sam.
And he yells Sam's name,
despair still lingering in it
but also sounding like
a battle cry
to take on every torment hell
would throw at him.
For Sam he would always fight.
He needs to
feel,
see,
hear his brother.
Yearns for him with every fiber,
neglecting the pain coursing through his body,
he yells for
"SAAAAMMM!"